The Heretic

realized that their leader was under attack and were swarming to the offensive behind him.

“Now!” Abel shouted into the upper reaches of the tent in Landish. “Away!”

The Scouts disappeared from the vent holes and, Abel knew, had grabbed portions of tent fabric and were sliding down the side. There they would finish the work they’d begun before they ascended. Each went to the nearest anchoring stake to find the partially sawn rope that held tension on the enormous structure and complete the task of severing that rope entirely.

Even as Abel turned back to spring for the entrance and daylight, he saw the sides of the structure begin to sag. And when he burst through to outside, it was falling all around him, falling down upon the contingent of Blaskoye who were on the heels of Rostov.

He was in the dust of the pathway in front of the tent.

“Dashian!”

The scream came from behind him, and he spun around as Rostov burst from the tent. He quickly put the girl down, shoved her behind him, and turned to face the Blaskoye.

But Rostov stopped in his tracks, as if he’d run into an invisible wall.

What the hell?

Risk a quick look behind you, lad, said Raj, laughter in his voice.

Abel did so. His twenty Scouts were lined up with drawn muskets, each muzzle aimed at the heart of the Blaskoye.

Then Gaspar ran past Rostov and, as a man might snatch an insectoid from the air, Rostov reached out and snared the Remlap chief by the neck and yanked him back and to his side. Within a split second, he had his knife at Gaspar’s throat.

“Papa!” A small loud voice from nearby, and the slave boy was struggling in Kruso’s grasp and had broken free toward his father and the Blaskoye.

Rostov cut Gaspar’s throat with a practiced brutality and shoved the still stumbling man toward the approaching boy. Meanwhile, the Blaskoye ran for cover.

“Fire!” Abel yelled.

It was just enough distraction.

A hail of balls kicked up the dust and followed Rostov, but no one had tracked him quickly enough, and he was gone before any could reload.

Gone to get reinforcements, said Raj. Time to leave.

“Stay here,” Abel said to the girl behind him. He and Kruso darted out to the slave boy, who was standing over his father. Gaspar lay face up, his neck oozing. The boy was attempting the impossible task of staunching the femoral bleeding.

“Come tha away, youngen,” Kruso said gently. But his hand was firm as he pulled the boy back and led him toward the Scouts. Abel gazed down at the Remlap chief a moment longer. There was the trace of a smile lingering on his face. Perhaps his last sight had been the boy. Perhaps not.

Abel turned to the Scouts. “Home,” he said. He picked up the girl again. His men, now reloaded, made their way at a fast trot out of the encampment, back to the edge of the desert and to the corral where the donts awaited them.

There was no question of throwing off pursuit. This was going to be a race. He hoped his other orders had been obeyed. They would find out soon enough.

They rode west. For the first quarter-watch, he had the donts running on two legs, but the creatures could not sustain such a pace, and eventually he ordered everyone to a more endurable gallop.

He’d been right about the pursuit. Within a half watch, a glance behind revealed a cloud of dust rising on the horizon-a large one, at that. Abel estimated it would take at least a hundred riders to kick up such a fury of redness.

And so it went for two days of hard riding. They stopped only to water the donts, and then only to let them slurp at soaked sponges, nothing more. Abel slept in the saddle, and had to tie the girl to his back at points so that she could slumber and not fall off. They traveled by day and by night. There was no question of a pause, a rest. Not yet.

Then Abel saw the landmark he was looking for, a great hill of rounded stone in the distance, and headed toward it. This was where they got to find out if Weldletter’s cartography was going to prove crucial or get them all killed. He had an accurate memory of every place the Scouts had passed, thanks to Center, but the remainder of the Scouts did not. And the ones he’d left behind in pursuit of Gaspar did not have him to guide them to the rendezvous point.

All they had was Weldletter’s map.

Because, of course, the map of the Redlands they’d allowed Gaspar to take was a forgery. Accurate enough in its broad outline, but completely misleading when you got down to the details.

As to the map of the Land itself that Gaspar had stolen-that one hadn’t been a misleading copy at all. It was an out-and-out fake. He and Weldletter had spent some enjoyable moments coming up with believable troop numbers and fortification figures that he’d then had Weldletter pen to the papyrus. Would the Blaskoye detect the ploy? In some ways, it didn’t matter. Both fake maps had served their immediate and most important purpose: bait for one who was bait himself, but hadn’t known it.

Maybe somewhere inside, Gaspar did, Abel thought, and yet couldn’t help himself.

To the left up ahead, said Center. Between those red sandstone structures lies the entrance to the canyon.

Soon the donts were off sand and onto the stones of a dry wash, their horn-coated feet clattering as the Scouts passed. The walls of the canyon quickly rose on either side of them and soon became cliffs a fieldmarch high. It was past noon, and the canyon was in shadow. This was at least relief from the unremitting sun.

The going became narrower and the donts were huffing and puffing at the steep upward climb. It was almost, but not quite, beyond them-especially with their Scouts urging them on with frenetic intensity. The animals were beginning to fail, however. Abel knew they must rest soon or most of the mounts, as desert-tough as they were, would die. He was quite willing to drive them until it killed them if he had to, but to do so would leave his men stranded here, only a quarter of the way back home.

Then he saw it. A mirror flash. Kruso immediately flashed back. An exchange of silent conversation followed.

They had made it. The rendezvous had succeeded. They rode onward. The path narrowed to the point that they must proceed single file. Sandstone scraped against his protruding legs and might have taken the skin and more had it not been for his leg wraps. Here was the reason they were part of the Scout uniform, the reason for all the snap uniform inspections he’d endured in his youth.

Steeper, and the donts were on two legs by necessity in order to climb the path. Then, to his right, he saw the side path, the trail up a rivulet that his own memory and the maps they’d made said was dont-passable. It was, nonetheless, very steep, and he bade the girl, who was only semi-conscious now, to wake up as best she could and hold on tight. To her credit, he felt her grip tighten around his waist.

And after what seemed an interminable scramble, they emerged on the rim. They were out.

There was Weldletter, and beside him were Abel’s sergeants, the leaders of the squads he’d left behind to pursue Gaspar. One of them, a crusty Ingresman named Maday, he’d left in charge; and it was Maday who reported. His accent was thick, but he did not choose to always speak in the patois as did Kruso.

“Charges are in place, sir,” Maday reported.

“Did you follow Weldletter’s instructions?”

“We did,” said Maday. “Packed every map case full of powder. Maps are going to be ruined, I’m afraid, sir.”

“Let’s get out of this first, then worry about the maps,” Abel replied.

“Aye, sir.”

Now the big question.

“And the corning? Did you do it?”